Author v. Autopsy Surgeon

Only a truly degenerate author writes himself in as a character in his own work. Don't you think?

The Auditor sighs. She sits at a large desk I've provided her with, papers strewn across the top. She looks up. I guess, she says.

What do you mean? It's a yes or no question.

I don't know, she says. If you say so.

Listen, I didn't invent you to be my yes-woman. Yes or no?

She puts down her pen. With all respect, you created me to audit your work. And that's what I'm trying to do. But it's hard to do when you ask me questions all the time. That aren't audit-related.

Then take a break.

We're on a deadline, she says.

She's right. It's getting late and we are on a deadline.

Just tell me. Do you think I'm a degenerate?

You're my creator! I don't know. Some might argue that it's a novel concept that you're doing.

But not you.

You made me honest above all else. Honest and polite. Why are you asking me a question you know I can't answer without going against my nature?

I made you too contentious.

Well maybe you did, she says. She returns to her work.

I manifest a squash court and play squash for an hour or so against the Athlete, who I reanimate, now technically a Zombie Athlete. Then I think I'm starting to go too over-the-top and make the squash court disappear and the Athlete fall in a lifeless heap.

Done? I ask.

Almost, she says.

Which did you think was the worst entry?

They're all very nice in their own way.

Jesus. It's like pulling teeth with you.

She shushes me. I sit in my wicker chair.

A few minutes pass.

Okay, she says, I'm done. It's the best I can do with just under a day's notice. She hands me a smartly assembled report. I read it over.

This is good, I say.

Thanks.

I didn't realize I mentioned the Assassin's gold tie clip until Assessor v. Astronaut. Do you think I gave away his cover? Should that be redacted?

I could give my advice, but I'd have to consult my attorney first.

Well played, I say. She smiles slightly.

I'll make corrections based on this report, I tell her. You've done a good job.

She smiles and nods and says it was nothing.

Now to your reward.

I place the report on the rosewood table and turn day to night. Our focus above, with one hand I brush a space between the constellations. I take her hand and guide her up to the heavens, transforming her as we climb. At the edge of the sphere I set her, finally, in the stars, in the gap between Orion and Taurus, as a new constellation: Doreen, the Auditor: the vague aspect of a woman, seated, carefully surveying text.

I fall back to earth, pull back the veil of night, and usher in the Autopsy Surgeon, a timid, balding man in middle age, the bottoms of his trousers rolled.

Grab your gun, I tell him. Let's make this quick.

And I don't get time to talk? he asks quietly.

Indeed there will be time, I say, to wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

I give him a gun and take the other. We walk out to the field, standing ten paces apart.

We raise our guns. Our guns go off.